Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

  Doc had thrown his head back then and had laughed silently ; his shoulders heaving dramatically. ‘Yeah? Really.’ Sarcasm in his flat delivery. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m moving. I’ll go to Levenshulme. Disappear. They’ll never find me there.’

  Bev had run a finger over a knot in the table’s honeyed pine surface, contemplating her circumstances. ‘Maybe this will turn out to be the kick up the arse I need. I’ve got to get a suitable place anyway, if I’m gonna set my world back on its axis. And I need to get away from Sophie and Tim. They’re doing my head in, big time. But first, I’ve got to wrap this case up, and I can’t move on until I’ve found out about one last thing.’

  They’d made a pact to dig a little deeper into the fate of a young prostitute named Tatjana – to probe the outer limits of the internet, as far as was possible. A forlorn-looking Doc had made her promise not to call him on his parents’ landline, saying he’d be in touch when he had a new, clean phone. With their plan agreed, she’d bid goodnight to him and had retired to the Tomcat-piss-fragranced guest bedroom.

  Another day of writing copy and supervising a photographic shoot of the charity’s facilities had followed. Now, finally, she was leaving London and heading home.

  If the woman opposite hadn’t have blown her nose loudly, Bev might not have stirred from her reverie. She glanced up. Her attention shifted from her fastidiously-coiffed travel companion to the aisle of the carriage beyond her.

  It was then that Bev spotted a man staring straight at her.

  He was an ordinary-looking man in his thirties, maybe. An Everyman, wearing a grey fleece over grey jeans. But there was something about the direct way in which he’d been observing her, as if mentally taking notes, and the studied way in which his focus moved to a point just beyond her the moment they’d locked eyes. The encounter seemed to chill the carriage.

  Standing abruptly, Bev grabbed her overstuffed handbag and shuffled into the aisle. Taking long strides, she started to move away from the man and towards the front of the train. A quick look over her shoulder confirmed that he too had stood up and was now following, just metres behind.

  Jabbing at the illuminated button that opened the doors, Bev started to feel dizziness sweep over her in waves. The man was closing on her. Closing . . . and the touch-sensitive button was not, it seemed, sensitive to her touch.

  Just as her pursuer was only three paces away, the doors slid open. Bev pushed past a tall, heavyset man who was wheeling a monster of a suitcase across the threshold into her carriage. His girth and the bulk of the case provided a bung for the thoroughfare, leaving Mr Grey stranded.

  Get near the end. Lock yourself in a bog in a busy carriage. Leg it out the door at Wilmslow.

  She barrelled her way through three packed carriages of business types, students, screaming children with their harried-looking parents, pensioners, and passengers from the four corners of the world, judging by the smorgasbord of languages spoken. Bev finally found herself surrounded by a group of drunken young men, all standing in the no-man’s land by the door. They were singing a rousing song that sounded like a football chant. She looked at the identical shirts they wore and the bulky kitbags they guarded between their muscular legs. Ice hockey players. Boys on tour. They were the perfect cover. Mr Grey wouldn’t get a word of sense out of them, she prayed.

  No sign of Mr Grey. Yet.

  Bev slid inside the mercifully vacant toilet and locked the door. The train swayed violently as it changed track, beating its north-westerly path homewards. Shaking with adrenaline, Bev gripped the handles of her bag, ready to clobber anyone who tried to force their way in.

  After ten minutes, nobody had come, though she felt like the cloying smell of the cleaning chemicals might dissolve her brain from the inside out. Forced to play the waiting game, she sat on the toilet seat and started to read the signs on the wall, showing where the soap was, where the hand-dryer was . . . Had Mr Grey given up his search? Had she imagined she was being stalked?

  Suddenly, she held her breath as the handle was tried from the outside. Insistent knocking on the door, with the ice hockey team still singing their hearts out. Was it him? Dare she shout out? No. Better to keep her mouth shut.

  More banging. Would a spy on Fitzwilliam’s payroll have a gadget to open a train’s locked toilet door? Could he slip inside, strangle her and disappear into the crowd? Anything was possible in this waking nightmare. The door handle depressed again.

  ‘Fuck off!’ Bev said beneath her breath.

  ‘Is anybody in there?’ Finally, a voice. An older woman’s voice, by the sounds.

  ‘Yes,’ Bev shouted.

  ‘You’ve been in there a long time. I need the toilet.’ The woman banged on the door again. ‘Can you hurry up please?’

  Oh, Jesus. Why did this have to happen? Now she’s going to draw attention to me! The train lurched. Bev’s stomach was in knots. She felt like she might vomit at any moment.

  ‘I’m busy. It’s not the only loo on the train, you know.’

  ‘But you’ve been in there forty minutes and I’ve got a weak bladder.’

  Was she really on the run, having a conversation with a semi-continent old codger through a train toilet door? ‘Well, I’ve got colitis,’ she shouted, following the declaration by blowing raspberries – long and low – that might pass as corroborative evidence, assuming the woman could hear her over the drunken ice-hockey boys. ‘So, go and find your own toilet!’

  The minutes crawled by and still Bev was frightened to come out. Finally, the ticket inspector insisted she emerge, lest she face the wrath of the transport police at the next station.

  ‘Some bloke was staring at me,’ she told the proud wearer of the Virgin West Coast livery – a burly woman who seemingly brooked no argument with the bowel-afflicted. ‘I was freaked so I got up and headed for the front of the train. But then, he followed me.’ Bev felt her eyes glaze over with tears. ‘I was scared and it seemed like a good place to hide. I think he was a sex pest.’

  Let off the hook, Bev spent the rest of the journey in the company of the sympathetic ticket inspector, in the front-most carriage of the train. Pulling into Wilmslow, she’d calmed down sufficiently to believe Mr Grey’s interest in her had been purely coincidental or perhaps down to her cheap and nasty minidress. She was overwrought, stressed, imagining things. Easy to do. Gathering her coat and her bag, she bid her ticket-inspecting champion farewell and stepped out into the evening drizzle.

  As she marched along the platform, she glanced back at the red snake of the train. The handful of passengers who had intended to alight at the small Cheshire station were already shuffling, strutting, jogging their way to the exit. Bev smiled. Glad that home was now within spitting distance. She was about to turn her back on the train when a malevolent smudge of grey caught her eye. There, standing in the doorway of coach E, she glimpsed her fleece-clad pursuer, jabbing furiously at the button on the wall that released the door. He seemed to glare out at her ; started to run the length of the carriage towards the open door at the far end . . .

  CHAPTER 25

  Bev

  ‘Good Lord, Bev! You look terrible. Whatever is the matter?’ Sophie asked, holding the front door open for Bev, where she had failed to let herself in.

  Bev stumbled over the threshold, practically falling into Sophie’s arms. She tried to regain her poise, noting that Tim was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m in t-trouble and I . . . I . . .’ She had that strange sensation of a plug being pulled within her and her energy being drained away, as if she might faint. She allowed Sophie to wrap an arm around her shoulder and usher her into the living room.

  ‘Come and sit down, darling!’ Sophie said, guiding her to the welcoming bulk of her Chesterfield sofa ; pushing the door softly closed so it was just the two of them. ‘Tell Aunty Soph all about it. What could possibly have happened to make my Bev so sad?’ She took a seat next to Bev and placed her manicured hands on her
knees, cocking her head to the side, like a primary school teacher awaiting a confession from a traumatised child.

  Running her fingers up and down the slate gabardine fabric, praying the repetitive movement would somehow calm her overheated mind, Bev began recounting her tale. She kept her voice to a whisper.

  ‘You met up with Jerry? Oh my God! Is that something you’d normally do for your clients? I thought you gumshoes just sat in your car and took photos.’ Sophie’s eyebrows shot up towards the widow’s peak of her hair.

  Bev shrugged. ‘Look, I’m not going to into the whys and wherefores, right? Client confidentiality and all that.’ Realisation dawned on her that she’d made a mistake in confiding in Sophie. Even though Sophie clearly cared for Angie, and had brought her business to Bev’s door with the intention of helping her, she was married to Tim. And Tim was Jerry’s “brother-from-another-mother”. Not good, Bev.

  ‘You’re shaking,’ Sophie said, gingerly reaching out to rub Bev’s arm. ‘How come?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ Sophie didn’t need to know the further extent of her chicanery on Angie’s behalf. ‘Anyway, I needed to meet up with him. For Angie’s solicitor. You know? Proving that he can’t keep his dick in his trousers.’ Shit. She’d said too much.

  Shifting in her seat, Sophie’s back straightened as though someone had inserted a rod down her top to stiffen her spine. ‘Oh. So, you found him in some amorous clinch? Did you confront him? Or were you the bait? Is that why you’re wearing a leopard-skin stripper’s dress?’ She snatched her hand away and shuffled several inches away from Bev on the sofa. ‘I’ve hit the nail on the head, haven’t I? Isn’t that entrapment?’

  Bev felt suddenly cheap and full of dishonesty. She snatched up a scatter cushion and placed it over her naked thighs, exposed by this short, short dress. ‘Look. Forget I ever showed up here like a gibbering idiot. OK?’ She stood, ready to leave and head downstairs for the privacy of her flat, where she’d be able to lick her wounds in peace.

  ‘No, darling!’ Sophie’s horrified shock abated instantly. She grabbed Bev with a surprisingly firm hand, pulling her back down. ‘You must unburden yourself.’ Just like at college. Squeaky-clean Sophie had smelled some fabulous gossip and was offering empty solidarity in return for the grubby details. ‘I insist. What goes on tour, stays on tour, right?’

  ‘Keep it down, Soph!’ Bev was mindful of Tim, possibly lurking outside the living room door, eavesdropping. She chose her words carefully, revealing only a fraction of what had gone on. ‘I’m not going into details, but I met up with Jerry to clarify . . . things. It was at his club. He got rude. I got confrontational.’ She was trying to keep it together but could feel her bottom lip starting to tremble. The lump in her throat threatened to block her words’ exit. ‘Then, he threatened me.’ Bev pressed her fingers to her lips to stem the outpouring of stress and woe.

  ‘I don’t believe it. Jerry threatened you? Jerry?!’ Sophie had that slightly sharp tone to her voice that spoke to scepticism.

  ‘He’s hardly a damned teddy bear, Soph. Why do you think Angie needed a PI’s help? You’re the one who said in the first place that he’s a bully.’

  Sophie straightened up, blinked hard and folded her arms tightly. ‘So, Jerry Fitzwilliam threatened you. In public, in an exclusive members’ club. Okaaaay. What did he say? How did he do it, exactly?’

  ‘To hell with this cross-examination crap. I didn’t sleep a wink last night, thanks to that bullying bastard. I’m knackered out of my skull. I’m going to bed.’ This time, Bev hoisted herself from the sofa and refused to be pulled back down. She yanked her hand from Sophie’s grip, feeling like she was a beleaguered fat leopard, pulling herself free of quicksand. Tempering her angry words, lest she get evicted from her flat. ‘Listen, Soph. It’s lovely of you to be so concerned, but please. Maybe I’m just tired and paranoid. I’ll be fine after a proper night’s kip in my own bed. Just let me go.’

  Pulling the door open, she yelped when she found Tim, standing there.

  ‘Oh, hello, Creeping Jesus! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’ She held her handbag high in front of her exposed cleavage. Tugging her hem downwards. Wishing she’d changed back into her stale office wear, no matter how crumpled it had got in her handbag, rather than this horrible micro-mini symphony in polyester.

  With a territorial arm placed across the door frame, Tim barred her way through to the hall. ‘Why are you really so tired, Bev? Slept in a strange bed, did you? Maybe that was why you couldn’t sleep. Maybe my friend, Jerry, is just playing the fall guy for your insomnia. Let me guess . . . Were you out shagging into the small hours?’ He looked her up and down with judgemental eyes, as though she’d infected the house. ‘Because I think you ought to take a good, hard look at yourself before you go slinging unsubstantiated mud around about my best friend. OK?’

  Bev registered that ominous draining feeling again. Shivers were upon her. She’d always felt off-kilter when she was around Tim. Don’t let him talk to you like that, for Christ’s sake! ‘Fuck you, Tim!’ She poked him in the gut, forcing herself to take a step towards him, rather than follow her instincts to retreat into his and Sophie’s living room, where she was on enemy territory. ‘What the hell were you doing, listening into our private conversation, you weirdo? And what has my private life got to do with the shoddy behaviour and misogyny of Jerry Fitzwilliam?’

  ‘I think you’d better pack your bags and leave,’ Tim said, still standing between her and the staircase that led down to the refuge of the basement. ‘We don’t want people like you being around the children.’

  ‘People like me?’ Bev scoffed, balling her fist whilst fighting tears.

  ‘Slags with no self-control.’

  She looked to Sophie for a show of support, but all she got was, ‘Oh, Timmy. That’s not very nice.’ As though big, unpleasant Timmy was no more than a naughty schoolboy who had been caught smearing a bogey on the hem of some little girl’s skirt.

  ‘Thanks a bundle, Aunty Soph.’ Bev glared at her friend. ‘Nice show of loyalty.’ She pushed past Tim, suppressing the urge to kick him in the shins. ‘And you can cock off. I’ve got squatter’s rights.’ She jabbed her middle finger up at him, almost ramming it home inside his left nostril.

  Hastening down the stone steps to her flat, Bev saw that her front door was standing open. She marched back upstairs, clutching her handbag like a threat ; fist balled on her hip. Burst into the living room to find Tim and Sophie whispering to one another on the sofa. Urgency in the speed of their exchange.

  ‘You been in my flat?’ she asked them, looking for tells in their body language.

  ‘I was heading down there just before you came in,’ Tim said, pointing the remote control at the TV and flicking it on as though she were merely an irritating fly, buzzing around the room.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Checking the condition you’re keeping the place in.’ He continued to press the buttons, scrolling through the channels.

  Bev wrenched the remote from his hand. ‘How dare you trespass? That’s my home!’

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s my property.’ He narrowed his eyes at her ; his lip starting to curl into a sneer. ‘And as your landlord, I’m entitled to check it’s in a good, clean state. As it is, I only got a glimpse of your living room, and then you burst through our front door, so I came back up to see what the hysteria was about. But what I saw was a mess. So, like I said.’ He snatched the remote from her hand. Turned back to the TV. ‘Pack your bags or face the consequences. I can’t tolerate infestations because you can’t be bothered to wash your filthy pots. And I won’t have strange men coming and going at all hours. You’re unfit on so many levels, Beverley. I feel very sorry for you and your family.’

  Fury licked up Bev’s gullet, manifesting itself as flaming words that shot from her tongue like the jet from a blow torch. ‘This is harassment, you big lump of shit, and I’ll not stand for it. It’s no sodding wonder you’re best
buds with Jerry Fitzwilliam. You’re cut from the same cloth! Don’t think you can intimidate me, Timbo, you big, lumbering wankstain!’

  ‘Enjoy your last night here,’ he said.

  Bev glanced at Sophie for a show of support but her friend’s demeanour was stiff and detached. Notably, she didn’t meet Bev’s gaze.

  Fleeing back downstairs, fighting the tears, Bev longed to be able to unburden herself to Doc but he had no phone. She contemplated calling Mo as an emergency measure, but knew he’d be furious at her for disturbing him out of hours. Instead, she realised she would inevitably resort to a mind-numbing binge on Porn Hub. Anything sufficed, as long as she could get out of her head the memory of Jerry Fitzwilliam charging towards her with murder in his eyes. And the embarrassment of having Tim, of all people, criticise the moral fabric of her being.

  She was just searching for her vibrator down the back of the sofa when she realised the air in the basement flat was uncharacteristically fresh. It was cold too. A draught blew through the tiny space.

  Feeling the skin on her arms prickle up with goose bumps, Bev prised her sex toy free and walked into her bedroom. The moonlight streamed in, casting long shadows everywhere, transforming her bulky furniture into menacing giant monsters. It took her a moment to work out why the long voile curtains were billowing inside like ghosts in flight.

  The patio doors were wide open. If it hadn’t been Tim, who else had been inside her place?